


what shapes

by Cazaan (sailor_muffin)



Series: Concerning James Bond [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, James Bond Has Issues, Other, Q Has Issues Too, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-01-06 19:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18395024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailor_muffin/pseuds/Cazaan
Summary: Sequel to 'what matters' and 'what lingers'Conversations and Consequences





	1. Chapter 1

The gentle buzzing of the phone in his pocket brought him out of it.  
He hadn't been sleeping, but close, exhaustion dulling every thought and sensation. In the grey morning light, Q seemed both more real and unreal at the same time. A creature in between, slumped next to him on the couch, soft and pliant, bleary eyes with dark circles like bruises and a dusting of stubble on his chin. Wrists tied and safely cradled in James' hands. The world had been so wonderfully quiet, for once. Peaceful.

Bzzzz.

Bzzzz.

Q's voice was low and rough.  
“You should get that, maybe.”

Or he could just ignore it.

Bzzzz.

He fumbled the phone out with one hand, picked up without looking at the caller ID. Didn't need to, really. There weren't many people who had this number.

“Brush your hair and shine your shoes, Bond.”  
Eve's chipper voice greeted him.  
“M wants to see you right away. We are sending you to beautiful Brazil.”

Yesterday, he would have been ecstatic at that.  
Getting out of London, doing his job, something good and important and useful and distracting. No more sitting around, endlessly circling the same thoughts in his head, a spiral growing tighter and tighter until...

“James?”  
Her tone turned slightly sharper.

“Yes. Yes, I hear you.”  
He sounded like shit.

“Well, get on with it then.”

“On my way.”

He hung up, let his phone fall to the floor. Wanted to smash it. Didn't, because that would have been childish and useless. Because the world didn't just stop turning just because he wanted it to. Life goes on. And on. And on. Always a new bad guy to kill, a plot to thwart, a girl to fuck, a car to drive. It will never end.

Q's slender fingers had small calluses and scars from his work, so faint James could feel them more than see, a hidden landscape that told stories of successes and failures and long nights. His nails were slightly longer than usual, dirt under some of them. He must have forgotten to cut them, lately.

(Such a peculiar thought, floating lazily through his head: Carefully clipping Q's nails.)

“It was Eve. I have to go.”  
Q nodded. A simple acknowledgement.

“You... you have to go, too.”  
He nodded again. Made no move to get up, his body still relaxed and calm.

Without the shadow of a doubt, James knew if he would have, if his muscles would have tensed and he would have started to pull away... James would have done something.

(Because James was not a bad man. James was a monster.)

Untying Q took a lot longer than it should because James' hands just wouldn't stop shaking. The rope had left red dents on white skin, not overly painful looking, but there, undeniably. James took his time rubbing the circulation back into Q's lax fingers, observing them getting warmer and pinker. So alive.

“I will let you go, now.”  
More an order to himself than a statement. Let him go. Let him go, for fucks sake.

Neither of them moved.  
“My cats are probably hungry.”

“You have cats?”

“Is that so weird?”

James smiled weakly, shrugging.  
“I suppose not. Maybe I am just more used to people with shark tanks or Komodo dragons.”

“I found them. Two kittens in a box next to a dumpster. There had been a third one, but it was already dead.”

“And you just took them in?”

“I wanted to take them to a shelter. Never got around to actually do it.”  
Affection curled in his stomach, warm and heavy. Of course Q would go around adopting strays. He probably talked to them, too. Not in the childish, babying voice some people use for their pets. He would treat them like humans, like they were his equals, two flatmates who just happen to be smaller and furrier and needed someone to open cans for them.

Gently, he let Q's hands slip out of his.  
“I will go into the bathroom. When I have locked the door...”

He didn't have to continue, Q was already nodding in understanding. Clever boy.

(“...you run.”)

James listened to his departure from behind the bathroom door, white-knuckled and silent. The front door fell shut. And Q was gone.

 

 

The things he told him, yesterday. Things that he hadn't even really been aware of.  
Words, words, words, his entire life pushed inside them, given form and context, every shapeless thought and emotion suddenly clear and brutally unambiguous. And still, when he was finished, Q had held out his hands to him, wrists together, so docile. No judgement. No disgust. Just a sweet offering.

(The one thing he had never imagined. Because not even his overactive, twisted mind could make up a scenario in which Q would give himself over willingly.)

 

 

The mission M presented him with was pure chaos. Too many players in the field. Money seemingly flowing from nowhere to nowhere. Egos clashing. And now the first corpses were turning up. Just yesterday he would have loved this. Would have thrown himself into this. Now, his body and mind felt like a raw open wound, bleeding freely everywhere. All his secrets like tattoos on his skin.

“Your flight is tonight. We sent a memo to Q-Branch, they should have your equipment ready in about four hours.”  
Eve threw him a deeply scrutinizing look while handing over the file. Something must have shown on his face, because she narrowed her eyes.  
“Problem?”

“No.”

File clutched in his fingers, he left.

 

 

He fully expected Q to not be there when he finally managed to make himself walk down to his department.

(If there ever was a reason to take a sick day, it's after you have been held hostage over night by a drunk Double-O Agent babbling at you about his shitty life and his nauseating, cruel compulsions.)

But there he was, only slightly worse for wear, talking softly to two of his little tech-underlings, a serious frown on his face and a cup of tea firmly gripped between his fingers. He must have been home for a change of clothes (and to feed his cats, apparently, because Q had cats) and his new jumper was even lumpier than the one he had worn the night before, the sleeves falling halfway over his hands and the collar high on his neck.  
Their eyes met and for a moment, Q just blinked at him, as if not recognising him at all.

“Oh yes, that.”  
He turned towards one of the people he had been talking to, a woman with a nose that seemed too large for her narrow face.  
“Would you give Double-O-Seven his equipment, Denise? I need to wrap this up.”

Denise seemed clearly taken aback by the request, shooting quick, nervous glances between them before shrugging and walking over to James, her dangerously high stilettos clicking loudly with every step.  
She did a well enough job, handing over his weapon, explaining the various uses the mobile phone had been modified with and finally giving him a sleek little earpiece he was very familiar with.

“See that you carry it whenever possible. The boss drinks unhealthy amounts of tea when he gets worried for his agents.”  
After a quick look around to make sure Q was not in sight, she leaned closer, her eyebrows furrowed in unhappiness.  
“Did you piss him off or something? He never lets someone else do this. He loves that part.”

“God, I really hope not. If anyone could make my life a living hell, it would be him.”  
A joke that was not a joke at all, said with an easy, charming smile and achieving the desired effect, smoothing out her brow and coaxing out a faint, proud blush on her cheeks. They loved Q, down here. He had carried the department through the disaster that was Silva, despite having just been thrown into the position, despite the entirety of MI6 being in ruins, despite everything. A trial of fire that would have left a lesser man in shambles had only made him more determined. They knew what they had with him, the unique possibilities he could bring to Q-Branch. To all of MI6.  
And if everything went well, he'd have about thirty-five more years to give to this country. While Bond had already passed his prime long ago and was barely holding on by a thread. There was something beautiful about that thought, of Q surviving him, of him becoming a faded memory of a time long past. An ancient mistake.

(A monster, slain.)

 

 

Five days into the mission, Q's voice appeared over the comms.

The night was hot and almost unbearably humid and James had just finished patching up a nasty machete wound on his leg. Process was slow but consistent. He had a new name, now. Patricia Hines.

“Double-O-Seven, report.”

He nearly dropped the bottle of vodka he had been steadily draining.  
“Knifes are still sharp. Breathing is very close to drowning. A monkey threw dirt at me. How is your night going?”

There was a short pause. Then:  
“I am currently alone at my desk. This conversation will be deleted.”

Oh.

“Double-O-Seven. Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Is this... not a good time?”  
James closed his eyes. He could picture it so easily. Q in a darkened room, the only light coming from his various monitors, his tea next to him. Maybe he was in one of his hideous sweater vests. Maybe he should ask him. 'What are you wearing?'

“Bond? Are you... Are you laughing?”

“Sorry. Sorry, just... thought of something funny.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Working on it.”

“This was a stupid idea...”

“No! Wait!”  
What the hell was wrong with him? The kid had finally gotten the courage to talk to him again and he was acting like a fucking arsehole.

Silence.  
“Q? Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

He sighed in relief.  
“Don't hang up on me.”

“I won't. James, listen. I am not...”  
Q paused for a moment.  
“I owe you an apology. I behaved unprofessionally.”

James almost laughed again. Threw back another shot instead.  
“Yes. Clearly YOU are the unprofessional one.”

“I am talking about work. Whatever happened before, I should have never let it interfere with our jobs. Refusing to talk to you because of personal reasons was immature and short-sighted of me. We can't just avoid each other indefinitely.”

“We could try. Your Denise seems like a nice enough woman. Have her be my handler from now on.”

“Do you want that?”  
Something about the way he said it, almost as if hurt by the idea, had James' hair stand on edge.

“You know exactly what I want. I told you what I want. What, do you need me to paint you a diagram? Would that make it easier for you?”  
He tried to hold on to the anger, to the frustration, but it slipped through his fingers like water, leaving behind immediate regret. He filled his shot glass again. Murmured:  
“Sorry. That was crude.”

“Yes. Well then.”  
Q didn't seem put off by his outburst. If anything, he actually seemed calmer.  
“This is what is going to happen: You will put down whatever you are currently pouring inside your body and try to get some actual rest. You will finish this mission as cleanly and quickly as possible. And then you are going to come home and we will sort this out.”

James couldn't help but think he had failed some test. Or maybe passed it. Whatever the case, the idea of 'sorting this out', whatever that entailed, was absolutely, mind-numbingly sickening. Because what the hell did Q expect? A long, drawn-out dissection of all the shit he had vomited at his feet? A heartfelt talk about personal boundaries?

But it wasn't really his decision, was it? No, he would do it. And if Q wanted to watch him chew pieces of glass until his throat and mouth was a bloodied, cut up mass of flesh, he would fucking do that, too.

 

 

Patricia Hines was young and beautiful and scared and married. He fucked her, mainly because he didn't know what else to do with her. She killed herself afterwards. Left a note, explaining that this was the only way she could escape from her husband, giving him details about the elaborate smuggling ring he was leading.

James sat next to her corpse, staring into her empty eyes. It was all just so... mundane. Routine. Just another dead girl, already merging with all the others in his head. When did it happen? When did the death of an innocent person start to become banal? Was it the tenth time? The twentieth? Fiftieth?

(Had he been normal, once?)

 

 

This is what could have happened, on that night:  
He could have just not opened the fucking door.

 

This is what could have happened, on that night:  
Q demanding: “Why did you do it?”  
And James would have stalked closer, grabbing him by his ugly jumper, throwing the skinny boy against the wall.  
“Why do you think? Why do you hope? Why are you here, all alone with me, throwing back drink after drink? Do you enjoy being helpless? Do you like the thought of me doing whatever the fuck I want to you?”

 

This is what could have happened, on that night:  
James could have put something in his glass. Poor kid wasn't paying attention, after all.  
And then he could have watched him slowly, so slowly slumping over.  
When it would have dawned on him what was happening, it would already be too late.  
“...no...”  
No struggling. No screaming. No escape.  
Sleep now, little Q.

 

This is what could have happened, on that night:  
He could have just continued squeezing the life out of him.  
After all, his eyes had rolled back so beautifully, his limp weight had felt so nice, so comforting in his arms. So why stop?

 

This is what could have happened, on that night:  
He still had one. One syringe. Smuggled it back home. Hidden in his safe. He still had one. He still had one. He still...

 

 

“You!”  
Dean Hines spat out through bloodied teeth.  
“You are the reason my wife killed herself! I loved her! She had been happy with me!”

“Yeah, she seemed really happy, being held prisoner by you.”

“You don't know shit about her. About us. I was just protecting her!”  
James beat the man to death with a convenient paper weight, letting it crash on down again and again, until his face was an unrecognisable thing and the faint gurgling and jerking limbs stopped.

 

 

Q seemed a lot better than he had when James had left. Better than he had for a long time, actually. No more dirty, stringy hair or unshaven jaw, no sad circles under his eyes or hunched shoulders. This was Q like he had first met him, subtly vibrating with energy, hair fluffy and gaze bright.

For a moment, James just stared, unseen by the door, watching him.

He was good-looking, in a way. Not necessarily in the traditional sense, but there was a sort of charisma to his sharp features and his quick, almost bird-like movements. Odd, certainly, but then everyone who worked here was a bit odd, James included.

When Q looked up from his monitor, there was a heartbeat of a wild, complicated emotion caught between them and James couldn't have looked away if he tried.  
Q smiled, small but real, before pushing his glasses up his nose and walking up to him. No reluctance. No sign of fear.

“Follow me, Bond. Please.”  
James followed. Watched Q's form from behind, let him lead him silently through empty corridors, their steps echoing hollowly on stone until they stopped in front of a nondescript door.

“How much did you have to drink today?”

Again with the drinking.  
“Couple of Martinis on the plane.”

Suddenly, Q was right in his face, examining him with a cool, scrutinizing look before nodding and continuing.  
“Good enough, I guess. At least you're not completely smashed.”

The room behind was relatively small, with white tiles from floor to ceiling. A harsh neon light illuminated everything. Aside from that, it was empty.  
Something was wrong. Something about this room made his skin prickle. A trap.

And his hunch was proven right immediately, because when Q pulled the door closed behind them, there were several, ominous clicks and a keypad fixed into the wall next to it started lighting up, the display above starting a counter.

14:59  
...  
14:58  
…

Hot, hot panic swept over him for a second before his instincts kicked in.  
“Fifteen minutes until what?”

“Until I have to enter the code to open the door. If I fail to do it, an alarm will sound, signalling everyone in Q-Branch that something is wrong down here.”  
Finally, some of Q's calm demeanor started to crack, showing first signs of tension.  
“There are no cameras in here. Soundproof walls. You have fifteen minutes.”

And then it dawned on James.  
“Open this door. Now!”

“You probably shouldn't kill me. People saw us leave together after all, so if only one of us comes out of here alive, it would be very suspicious. And maiming me too bad would also be not the best idea. On the other hand, the medical ward is only two floors up, so...”

“Are you crazy? Have you literally lost your FUCKING MIND!? You locked us up here so I could...? NO!”  
Fifteen minutes. Too much time. Not enough time.

Q in the unforgiving brightness of the neon tubes, the only spot of colour in a sea of white.  
“Then don't. I will just... sit down right here.”  
He let himself fall down cross-legged on the floor.  
“And you can stand over there and we wait.”

“Open this door right now!”  
James dragged him roughly back to his feet, shaking with rage. Shaking with something.

Q honest-to-god giggled at that, high-pitched and nervous and definitely manic.  
“Can't. Not until the time is up. Better get comfortable.”

Nausea crawled up James' throat.  
“Do you get off on this? Do you want to get hurt?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then WHAT!?”  
He pushed Q away from him, watched him stumble and catch himself.

Q grinned, except it looked more like he was baring his teeth in a snarling challenge.  
“12:59.”

This was fucking madness.  
“Give me your glasses.”

“My glasses?”  
A sudden, visible falter in his momentum.

Good. Fucking GOOD.  
“You can either give them to me or I will take them.”

Q got them off his face with minimal fumbling, holding them out to James, a dangling, delicate thing.  
James couldn't remember ever thinking about doing this, despite it being so obvious. Maybe because it was so obvious, something painfully childish and stereotypical, an adolescent itch one felt when confronted with a glaring weakness worn so openly, almost daring to be exploited.

(Four-eyes)

Q's glasses made a sad little crunch in James' hand when he crushed them between his fingers, pieces of plastic digging into his palm before falling to the ground, mangled and broken and Q looked down at them with naked, rapidly blinking eyes and it was viciously, disgustingly satisfying.

The first punch was almost as much a surprise for James as it was for Q. A fist buried in his stomach, fast and hard and Q let out a chocked cry, doubling over, his hands clutched in James' suit jacket the only thing keeping him upright. The next one was right into his solar plexus and Q went limp, crumbled to the floor against the wall, uselessly gasping.

James crouched down over him, grabbing a handful of soft, black hair, making Q's head connect with the tiles behind him with a dull, painful thunk. Uncoordinated skinny fingers scraped at his hand, his arm, finally back at his lapels, holding. Just holding. Not struggling.

“It's all good. Don't be afraid.”  
Q coughed weakly. There was blood on his lips.  
What the hell was he talking about? Q was the one who was afraid, who should be afraid, because he had locked himself up with a monster.  
“I'm here. I will be anything you need. Anyone. Tell me who you want me to be. Tell me what you need.”

“Q.”

“Anyone.”

“No, I need you to be Q.”  
He didn't even know his real name. And it was absolutely sickening and wrong how much he loved it. Like a fairy tale character. Like someone who exists just for him. Someone he made up. His Q. Delicate and strange and ethereal. Bleeding and gasping and holding on to him, surrounded by nothing but bright, bright white.

“I can do that.”  
A shaky smile.

Q fought with the same graceless desperation all untrained people fought, movements too wide and easily intercepted but also unbound by practised repetition and internalized rules. James had learned the hard way to not underestimate opponents like that, because one moment of surprise was what so often made the difference between walking away from a fight or not.

When he finally had Q on his stomach, one knee in the small of his back and one of his arms twisted behind him in a cruel angle, his nose was gushing blood and he had a set of bite-marks on his arm and a very uncomfortable throbbing in his lower stomach from a knee that was probably meant for a more vulnerable part of him. He was also painfully hard and grinning like a maniac.  
Q didn't stop. Still wiggling, still kicking, even while he was whining in pain.

“Hold still or I'll dislocate your shoulder.”  
That did the trick. Part of him still wanted to do it, wanted to feel the little pop, wanted to hear Q scream, truly SCREAM as loud as his poor lungs could handle. But this, feeling all the fight drain out of him at once, was better.

James rolled the unresisting body under him over, straddling him. Q's lip was split. There was the beginning of bruising next to his left eye. He looked...

(What are you doing? What are you DOING? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?...)

Q spat in his face.  
“Fuck you!”

James slapped him, open-handed and loud, echoing through the empty room, making Q's head snap to the side.

(bitch slap)

“Bitch,”  
tumbled out of James' mouth. And then:  
“Fucking bitch. Useless little bitch. Weak disgusting bitch.”

A glaring red mark was forming on Q's cheek, tears clumping his lashes together.

“...fuck you.”  
This time, it sounded a lot weaker, a soft, wet plea.

James' cock twitched. This. This was it. This was everything. Better than he had ever imagined. Almost too good.

(Like the very first time he noticed he liked girls. Like the very first time he found out he wanted to hurt boys.)

He ripped and pulled at Q's clothes, dragging his shirt out of his pants and up to his armpits, leaving a lithe, heaving torso exposed, dark treasure trail, tiny pink nipples. So much pale flesh, trembling and defenceless.

“Don't...”  
Q started struggling again, trying to push him off, trying to cover himself up.

James slapped him again, the other side this time. The boy fell back with a whimper, holding both hands over his face, protecting, guarding. James dragged them away with pure animal strength, snarling into his face triumphally, taking in wide, green eyes and a red, tear-streaked face.

“Oh no, you don't get to hide from this, Q. Look at me!”  
Was that him talking? Did he really sound like that?  
“You stupid little shit. Arrogant prissy BITCH. You think you can just walk in here and order people around? Do you have any idea what we can do to you? We will tear you apart, little boy. Rip tiny, twitching pieces out of you. You're not safe, hidden in your dark little hole, deep in the bowels of MI6. I found you. I dragged you out. What are you going to do now? Answer me!”

Another slap. Not quite as hard. No longer necessary. Q was crying, truly crying, with snot running from his nose and a thin string of bloody saliva dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.

(Just like back in the cellar, except not, because now there were no chemicals trapping him in some personal hell, there was just James, his words and his fists and his cruelty. This was better. THIS was perfect.)

“...sorry...”  
Q sniffled between hiccups.  
“...please...don't...”

“Don't what?”  
James touched because he could. Because it was his right, having beaten the boy into submission. Traced his fingers over wet, hot cheeks and trembling lips.

“Don't let them take me away. Don't leave me.”

(This was fake. This was Q playing into his fantasy, the gross, disgusting, weird, ridiculous narrative he had stuck in his head, except it wasn't, it was real, because Q had been taken, could be taken again and this time he could be too late and all that would be left of him would be another lifeless shell, another corpse with empty eyes.)

“I won't. I have you now.”  
Hands were crawling up his arms again, shaking and pale. James dislodged them gently, pressing them down against the cool tiles.  
“No, no. None of that. Stay down. Don't move.”

Q stayed. Didn't protest when James unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, undressing him like a ragdoll, leaving him naked from the waist up on the hard, tiled floor, a skinny, sniffling kid blinking in the fluorescent light. James carefully arranged his hands back up, right and left next to his head, before leaning back. Smiling, when Q didn't make a move to curl back into himself.

Little nests of dark hair had been hidden in his pits and James reached down, lightly touching them, soft, slightly damp. Something about this was strangely endearing, making warmth flood in his stomach that had nothing to do with arousal or violence and everything with the sight of a flock of birds taking off, a sunset on a deserted beach, a beautifully set table.

“Good boy. You can be good, can't you? You just need someone to take care of you.”

“No one takes care of me. I'm all alone,”  
Q whispered, staring up at him, eyes so very wide and green and red-rimmed. So lost.

James held his face gently, rubbing it clean with the sleeve of his suit.

(And a part of him fleetingly thought about snot on expensive fabric and forgot about it immediately, unimportant, unimportant.)

“There, all better. You like this, don't you? You need this. No one ever took their time with you. No one ever bothered.”

A dazed nod.

“Close your eyes, be good now.”

And there he was. There he was. Odd little Q, with his eyes closed and his arms raised in surrender and his body lax and pliant and it was easy, so easy to free himself from his pants and start jerking off, to finally release the coiled-up tension that had been inside him.

There was a small hitch in Q's breath, a sign that he knew what was going on, and that was... not something James wanted. Getting himself off was never directly involved in this, only ever a by-product after the fact. But at this moment, not doing it seemed almost dishonest. Almost cowardly. Because this was part of it. Not exclusively, but also not negligibly.

Swallowing, he gripped himself tighter. Q still hadn't moved. Hadn't opened his eyes. He could do it. He was already so close. He moved quickly, just the right way, just the way he liked it, and Q was so good, so quiet...

Biting his lips, desperately holding back any and all sound, he came, spurts of hot, white cum spraying the body under him, string after string, all over the soft stomach and the ribs and even reaching a pink nipple.

James stared in stunned fascination, reaching out to touch, to feel the slippery substance beneath his fingers and then... he just started... rubbing. As if rubbing his release into Q's pale skin, his touch gentle but firm. Imagined feeling it sinking into Q, into his flesh, his bones, his essence, forever a part of him.

'Why don't you just piss on him, while you're at it?'

(And somehow, that thought was not quite as vile as it should be, and oh god, what the hell was wrong with him, what kind of...)

A gentle, rhythmic peeping-sound started.

James froze, looking up in Q's open, calm, clear eyes.  
“I have to give in the code, now.”

He grabbed Q before he could stop himself, pinning him to the ground by his shoulders.  
“Tell me the combination and I'll do it.”

Q just shook his head.  
“Not how this is going to work, James. Let me up. One minute.”

He wanted to argue, he really, really wanted to. More than anything, he wanted to keep Q on his back, on the ground, under him. But he knew it was over. Whatever had happened just now, it was over. Q had made sure it wouldn't go on too long. Because Q was clever and Q had planned this and Q had so much more control than he had.

“Ok. Ok. Come here.”  
He helped him back on his feet, held him when Q stumbled for a second, felt his naked skin under his fingers, chilled from the tiles.

Punching in the code only took a few seconds and with a soft series of clicks, the door opened.

They were free. It was over.

It was over.

Hastily, James put himself away in his trousers.

Q was crouched over his discarded clothes. This was surreal. This was so bloody surreal, watching Q's hunched over form, the bumps in his bony back.

For a moment, he seriously contemplated just running. Just getting the hell out of here, getting the hell away from Q and whatever this thing between them had mutated into. And at the same time, he saw himself going up to him and pressing him back down.

'Stay down. Stay down. Down.'

A good portion of the buttons of Q's shirt were ripped off and he looked hopelessly pathetic wrapped in it and the wrinkled remains of what was once an extremely ugly brown blazer. His face was a mess. In one hand, he held his broken glasses.

“Bond, you are blocking the door.”  
James nodded. Because yes, he was. He was blocking the door.  
“Are you going to let me leave?”

“You look...”  
He gestured helplessly at the picture Q made. There was no way he could just walk back into Q-Branch as if nothing had happened.

“Yeah, I can imagine.”  
Wincing slightly, Q touched the sore spot on the side of his face.  
“I'll take care of it. Go home.”

“Q...”

“Go. Home.”

James went home.

 

 

He drank until he stopped shaking. Then drank some more, until the world started to slow down into a syrupy haze. He had broken Q's glasses. Somehow, that was the part that kept repeating in his head. He had broken his glasses like some playground bully.

(And that was darkly comical, in a way. Much easier to swallow than all the other things he had done.)

He wondered what Q had told people. Maybe that he had fallen down the stairs. That would be fitting.

 

 

“James.”

Eve. Eve Moneypenny. Miss Eve Moneypenny. In his kitchen. Arms folded. Angry. A simmering anger, waiting to explode.

“...always knew you would be the one to kill me for real...”  
God, she was gorgeous. A perfect mix of style and murderous intent. Beautiful in her red blouse. Undoubtedly beautiful in red blood. An avenging goddess.

“Want to have a guess why I'm here?”

James grimaced, tracing patterns on the table.  
“The thing... the thing about working in a building filled with spies...”  
He trailed off. Maybe there had been another part to that sentence, but he had forgotten it. Didn't seem that important anyway.

“He told Medical he fell down the stairs.”

James snorted with laughter, letting his head fall on the table, shoulders shaking. Of course he did. Silly boy. Sweet boy.

“That wouldn't happen to be the same stairs that gave you a busted nose, would it? The one that you didn't have when you were upstairs with M this morning and then mysteriously appeared in the security footage of the lobby, the place where he couldn't loop the footage without it being too obvious?”

“Is this official, then? Or are you just... looking for the newest gossip...”  
The table felt pleasant and cool against his cheek. Maybe he'll just stay like this for a while.

“I would hit you right now, but you are too drunk to properly feel it.”

“Considerate.”

“There are a lot, A LOT of allowances being made for Double-Os. Even more made for you, personally. God knows you should have been fired at least a dozen times already, just in the last year. But that is not enough for you, is it? Always testing the limits. Always seeing if you can push things just a little bit further. So, tell me, just what the hell did Q do? Not give you the car you wanted?”

Remarkable Q. Extraordinary Q.  
“You like him?”

“You want to know if I think he's attractive?”

“No. Or yes, actually. Do you?”

“Not really my type. Why?”

“And... you know... personality?”

“He's peculiar. A bit stroppy and standoffish. But he's a good man. Loves his job. He is bloody good at it, too. And he certainly doesn't deserve you beating the shit out of him for whatever reason you think you have.”

True. All true.  
“He has cats. Did you know that?”

She shook her head. Not quite as angry any more. More confused.  
“What are you talking about?”

“Q. He has cats.”

“Do YOU like him? For fucks... is that what this is about?! Is this some sort of weird crush? The James Bond version of a gay freak-out?”

That would be nice. Being gay. Something normal and non-monstrous. Something sweet. Something gentle. Q should have something like that. Not something like James. Something that wanted to hurt and humiliate and imprison.

“To answer your previous question, no, this is not official. I guess I just couldn't believe how utterly stupid you were. Q? Seriously? That's the person you decided to fuck with? He is going to destroy you. And I will point and laugh when he does.”

James wondered what she would say if he told her that it had been Q's idea. If she would just throw her hands in the air and leave. Now that would be funny.

“I'll only say this because apparently having shot someone makes me feel weirdly responsible for that person, even if they are a complete piece of shit like you: Get a grip. Confront whatever issues you have. Because whatever you are doing right now, it is clearly not working out.”

Confronting his issues. Where the hell would he even start with that?

“Are you listening? Hello?”

With Q, probably. Mesmerizing Q, armed with a too sharp mind and the knowledge of just how to truly, deeply, irreparably crush James. A spine as hard as titanium and a heart as soft as cotton, dark hair and pretty green eyes and a smart mouth, oh god...

He reminded him of Vesper... Q reminded him of Vesper...

“I think I'm going to throw up.”  
He made it to the toilet, but only barely.


	2. Chapter 2

Dreaming about Vesper used to be torture. An endless parade of scenarios in which he was always just too late, just out of reach. He would spend these dreams running and running and never getting closer and wake up exhausted, drenched in sweat and throat sore.

But the dreams calmed down, over the years. Now, they were quiet and strange. He dreamt about her in parts, about her voice, the shape of her lips, the texture of her hair between his fingers, the taste of her sex. Sensory impressions, free of any context and leaving him with nothing but a vague feeling of loss and failure.

He used to think this meant he was getting over it. Getting over her. But apparently, he never will. Vesper's ghost will haunt him forever, an image, an idea, a concept burned too deeply into his very core.

 

 

“Q.”  
James had found him in the vast space of the deserted Q-Branch garage, sitting hunched over a laptop, bruises dark and accusatory on his face and wearing glasses that, judging by the way his eyes were squinting slightly, didn't have the right prescription any more.

“Double-O-Seven. How can I help you?”  
Q didn't look up, just held himself perfectly still. Not fearful. Waiting.  
James was willing to bet he had a variety of strategies planned out for whatever James' reaction would be right now.

(If subject indicates aggression proceed Protocol A...)

God, it hurt to look at him.  
It actually, physically hurt, a pulling, searing pain, going from the pit of his gut all the way to his toes and the corners of his eyes. But this was it, his one chance to at least try to make this right. He had promised himself that, promised Eve yesterday, too, when there had been nothing left in his stomach and nothing left of his pride.  
“You took a big risk, you know that, right? This could have ended a lot worse.”

Q lifted his head, watching him with wary, guarded eyes.  
“I had a safe word.”

“Did you?”

“A verbal command that would have flooded the chamber with gas, knocking both of us out long enough for the timer to go off.”

James almost smiled at that, because of course Q did. Reckless, but sneaky.  
“And what if you couldn’t speak?”

“That would have been inconvenient.”

That was certainly one way of putting it. 

“Are you alright?”  
An awful question. But it was either this or apologizing, and there was no way that would have sounded anything other than either condescending or plain dishonest. 

But, apparently, that was the right thing to ask, because Q’s cool exterior started to thaw, just a bit.  
“I was never in a fight before. I underestimated how much it would hurt. Not in the moment, too much adrenaline. But after. And you ruined my glasses. What the hell, Bond?”

And it was disorienting, this familiar display of incredulous frustration over him destroying Q's things. Almost as if everything was still normal, almost as if Q was still just a distant fantasy to be indulged in.  
“I’ll pay for new ones.”

“Oh, you bet your ass you will. Those were expensive.”

Q and his expensive glasses. Q and his cats. Q and the way you can smear cum all over him and treat him like some object to vent out your frustration on and afterwards he will just clean up and walk out with his head still held high while you spent the rest of the night staring at your own puke and contemplating how the universe has a sick sense of humour, giving you an amalgamation of all the people you wanted like a fucking taunt, showing you just how much you are truly fucked in the head.  
“Was it what you expected it to be?”

“Well, you didn’t break any of my bones. That was considerate.”

Jesus Christ.

“Was that something you thought I would do?”

“I thought about a lot of things.”

If there ever was a loaded sentence. And why wouldn’t he? James had given him enough material. Details. Descriptions. And while there was still a part of him that wanted to grab him and shake him and scream at him for being so utterly, utterly stupid, this pure, fearless will to conquer was bloody impressive. Like a wolverine flinging itself at a predator twenty times its size.  
“I feel sorry for anyone who ever attempted to intimidate you.”

Q sat up a bit straighter at that and James could feel the echo of a familiar thrill run through him. Q thrived on compliments, no matter how much he tried to play it down. There was something hopelessly charming about that, about these small glimpses of genuine, childlike joy at being recognized as a force on his own, as someone to be taken seriously. 

(Or maybe it was just that Q was alarmingly desperate for any sort of human affection. But that train of thought led down a dangerous road James would not go. He wouldn't.)

“James...”  
He started, but seemed to rethink whatever he was about to say. There was a short pause before he continued, looking down on his keyboard, voice soft and almost shy.  
“It was a lot. But I knew it would be. What I didn't take into account was how it would affect me. I shouldn't have...”  
He trailed off again, wringing his hands in front of him.  
“I shouldn't have just sent you away afterwards. I only realized later how horrible that must have been for you.”

Of all the things to regret.  
“I don't blame you for not wanting to be around me after that.”

“That's not what I meant.”

And James really, really didn't want to hear this. Didn't want to hear about what he had shaken loose inside Q yesterday, about how what James had said and done had affected his scarred psyche, about new and old traumas, about control and the inevitable failure, because you can never control these things.

(Because maybe Dr Russell wasn't as full of shit as they all hoped.)

But this wasn't about him. This was about Q and James finally treating him like a human being, just once, just for fucking variety's sake.  
“Whatever you feel like telling me, you can.”

“I am a terrible actor.”

That one threw him for a loop. And Q stared at him, eyes begging him to understand, and this was important, Q had just told him something important and James didn't get it but maybe he did, because if Q was a... then yesterday...

“Oh shit! No! No, no, I didn't mean it like that!”  
Q babbled in panic, his chair rolling backwards with a squeak as he jumped up, stumbling towards him.  
“I could have stopped it, remember? You didn't... it was consensual. It really was. Oh my god, I'm so bad at this...”

James grabbed him before he could stop himself, without thinking, without plan, without anything registering inside him besides the fact that Q had gotten into arms reach, had gotten up from his seat and had crossed the distance, he had come to him, had walked right up...  
One hand clutched around his wrist, the other clamped over his mouth and Q just froze, eyes wide and shocked.

“Ssh.”  
James murmured nonsensically. 

Sharp little puffs of air against his fingers. But Q was silent. Didn't try to break out of his hold. This close, James could see the bruises in stark detail, could see the individual lashes behind his glasses, the hair of his eyebrows, the pores in his nose. This close, he could smell him, a slightly stale, musky smell of a body being confined for too many hours in stuffy underground rooms. This close, he was dizzyingly human.

Slowly, slowly, he took his hand from his mouth, let it curl around his chin instead. Q's breath was fresh tea, layered over older tea, layered over even older tea, all accompanied with the mildly sour note of a stomach that had been without proper food for too long. 

“That could have gone better.”  
Q whispered, a small self-deprecating smile on his face.  
“Should we start over?”

James nodded, forcing himself to let go, to let Q stand before him without anything restraining him, even if it felt wrong, felt unsafe.  
“What would you have done if the alarm had gone off, Q? What would you have told people?”  
Because suddenly, that seemed important. Everything about yesterday's logistics seemed important.

“I don't know.”  
A helpless, one-sided shrug and a lie.

“You don't know? Are you telling me you thought about all of this and not once considered that you might actually need it?”

Q breathed in deeply and looked him dead in the eye. The truth, this time.  
“If the alarm had gone off, I wouldn't have said anything. I would have left it to you. Am I wrong in my assumption that you would have wanted to be the one to bring the pillars down over us? Over this?”

“And what about your job? Your future? You told me yourself that you never wanted to jeopardize it over whatever this is.”

“They wouldn't have fired me. Maybe they would have suspended me for a while, got me some more counselling, whatever else they thought would put a band-aid on this. I would have had my old position back in less than a year. I was barely out of withdrawal before they already started sending case files to my hospital bed. They need me and they know it.”

Just like James. He wouldn't have been fired, either.  
But instead of hastily putting him back together and hoping for the best, he would have been sent out on a nice, long suicide mission somewhere far away, too much of a liability to be ever let back into his country. There might have even been a trade in it for them. James had made enough enemies.

“Was it worth it? Do you have what you need, now? Are you back in control again?”  
And yes, that was deliberately callous, that was meant to HURT, but Q looked more amused than anything.

“No.”

“What's next, then? You want to have another go with me? Or are you looking for something a bit more spicy? I met a lot of people who would welcome a self-destructive little genius like you with open arms.”

“And you would love that, wouldn't you? Then I would just be another mark and all that pesky conscience would go right out the window.”  
His smile was sharp but his eyes were almost fond. So much like Vesper. How had he not seen it before?

“You don't want me to lose my conscience. Unless this is just an elaborate way to commit suicide.”

“It's not.”

“Are you sure about that, Q?”  
One step closer, two steps closer, noses almost touching.  
Strange, how he and Q were nearly the same height. It never felt that way. And that probably meant something, that should probably make him think about his perception of him.  
“Are you sure you don't want me to kill you?”

“If I wanted to die, I would be perfectly able to do it myself.”

James smiled, making sure to show as many teeth as he could.  
“But what would be the fun in that? You like having fun, don't you? And it's all a game until it suddenly isn't any more, until you suddenly realise that life hurts and you are not as much of a masochist as you hoped.”

“No one is.”

And there was something, something very, very real in that statement, something that made James' already twisted innards grow even tighter.  
“Are you angry with me?”

“You want to know if I'm ANGRY?”  
For a moment, James feared he would start screaming, but instead he suddenly became quieter, hissing his words like a posturing snake.  
“You tortured me. You were supposed to help me and instead you fucking tortured me and you got off on it and yes, I'm angry at you for that, I fucking HATE you for that but you know what was even worse? I had to spend weeks sorting through my nightmares until I found out what you did while you just sat around getting drunk and hoping I would forget and move on. You could have said something, done something. Anything. ANYTHING.”

And there were slender fingers burying into his lapels again and the sheer desperation in Q's voice was so overwhelmingly horrifying that it was almost fascinating again, almost intriguing again, because no one should feel like that about him, no one should look at him like that, like they needed him to explain the whole fucking universe to them.  
“And here is the part that is really priceless: After that night on your couch, after you told me, I was just... I was ok. I felt like absolute shit after my abduction but now, hell, I sleep better than I have in years, nine hours, ten hours, it's fucking insane. I stopped scanning the crowd on the tube for attackers. That permanent fog around me is gone. I feel aware again. I feel like myself again. This is not how things are supposed to work. You don't find out that you betrayed your country and a dangerously unstable Double-O Agent harbours an unhealthy fixation on you to the point of assault and in response you feel BETTER.”

(“Don't leave me.”)

James hadn't even been aware he could feel shame any more, but there it was, a hot nauseating wave of it, because he did that, he dragged Q into this dark pit and now he felt stuck here too, two flies caught in the same net.

And Q, who was Vesper, who was a vulnerable little boy, who was an utterly frightening man, Q just went on, all posh little accent and gentle, temptingly bittersweet breath against his lips.  
“I can't even fully hate you, not really. I can't hate you for being lonely and terrified. Because I am lonely and terrified, too. So I figured we might as well be terrified together.”

And it was Q who breached the last bit of distance between them, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his skinny body against him as if trying to crawl inside his skin, his face buried in his shoulder, sharp edges and bruised, soft skin and human weaknesses.

'Darling.'  
James thought numbly, standing stiffly in his embrace, feeling horribly out of place in this scene, in this moment, in this life.  
'Darling, darling, darling...'

(And wasn't it strange, how this word seemed to come from the same black void he had pulled all the other derogative terms he had called him before. A single, warm endearment between all the abuse and humiliation.)

“Darling,”  
James said, because if Q had to hear the others, it was well within his right to hear this one, too.  
“Darling, what happened yesterday?”

“I thought I could do it. But things are either real or they aren't. I was hoping that it wouldn't matter, that you could overlook it, maybe. In the end, that wasn't a problem. It... It didn't start that way. But I lost it, during. And then I didn't know how to stop any more. Nothing like that ever happened to me before. And then you... it's not your fault. It really, really isn't. But when it was over, everything... everything I had felt was just gone, like a switch being flipped and then I was just cold. I felt cold and empty and dirty, not because of what you did or said or... because of me. Because all I had thought about during was this. I just wanted you to hold me.”

And he still didn't get it, but maybe he did, but maybe it didn't matter, because he understood, an understanding that went deeper than words. And so, he let himself relax into Q, slipping one hand around his waist and the other one slowly, slowly up his lithe back until it came to rest at the back of his neck, feeling the tensed up muscles there, all knotted up from pain and tension and fright, and he dug his fingers in ruthlessly, feeling a shudder go through the boy, hearing him let out a surprised noise of hurt and pleasure and relief and he did it again and again, changing angles and pressures until Q fell against him with a boneless sigh, until he could feel the weight of him again, warm and heavy and reassuring, until it was almost, almost like back in his flat after pressing on his windpipe long enough to quiet him down, finally, finally quiet him down, with Q's slowing pulse against his fingers and his breath an evened out, gentle rhythm. 

“Let me take you home with me,”  
he said, because he couldn't not say it. Because, apparently, once you start telling someone the truth, it becomes an addiction, a compulsion, to just keep doing it. To keep talking and talking, to just keep telling them everything that is going on in your head, no matter how insane, no matter how mortifying.  
“I will take such good care of you. Feed you something hot and simple and filling that will leave you satisfied and just a little bit sluggish. I'll peel you out of your clothes, clean you up. Press on all of your bruises, one by one, until you give me a wince, or maybe even a soft little whine. And after that, I'll tie you up. Your hands behind your back. Your feet. I'll lay you down on your stomach and hogtie you. Do you know what you would look like, like that? Naked and helpless and bound?”

“Like a Christmas ham?”  
Aiming for sarcasm and missing by a mile, because Q was whispering his words with a shaky sigh, clinging to him with such force that James was sure he couldn't let go even if he tried, his joints locked in position by pure, stubborn need.

“Like a war prize. My beautiful, clever boy. Perfect little Q. I have never, ever met someone as dangerous as you.”  
And he pressed a kiss against his temple, against the soft, dark hair there, breathing in deeply before gently prying Q from his embrace, holding his face in his hands and just drinking him in. What a strange, strange person his Q was. Sad and lonely and needy. But he will survive this. Q will survive anything, he knew that. Anything and everything and anyone and everyone. Q will live to be a thousand years old, still pottering around at his workstation, still bitching at agents who don't return the equipment, still ruthlessly killing and killing with a click of a button and all his clever gadgets in the hands of others. 

(And maybe he will even find someone. Someone who will love him and whom he can trust and who will treat him with basic human decency, all things that James could never give him.)

“I'm sorry.”  
Because he was, for this. For what he will do now. For what he had to do.  
“I think, if I would have still been able to, I would have fallen in love with you.”

And Q opened his mouth but before he could say something, something that might make James resolve falter, something that might change his mind, James slipped his hand into his back pocket and pulled the syringe out.

 

 

Fear. 

Real, deep, animalistic fear, the kind that is impossible to fake, to recreate, to truly understand unless you have been in a situation like this before. And James had, he had felt this fear, this fear that is drowning out every rational thought, every bit of humanity and seeing it in Q's eyes right now, there was still a part of him, beneath all the guilt and self-disgust and pity, that revelled in it. That imagined grabbing the boy by the hair and just plunging the damned thing into his neck, to watch his sanity break one more time, to feel that brilliant, brilliant moment of power again.

He didn't. He let Q stumble backwards, let him crash into his table, all gigantic eyes and pale, pale face and gasping breaths and he waited. Waited until Q realised that the syringe was laying in James' open palm not as a threat, but as an offering. 

“Where...?”  
He broke off, swallowing thickly.

“You know where, Q. The same place I got the other one.”  
James talked as softly as he could, held himself as still as he could.

“Why?”

“You also know why.”

Q groaned loudly, the anguish on his face so very palpable, arms wrapped around himself tight as he bent over, whining out his pain with a single, high wail.

James waited, listening with one ear for anyone who might be near, who might hear them. Nothing yet. Then again, they might as well all walk in here and watch. Make it a spectacle. A public execution.

Q stood up straight again. His eyes were dry. James felt strangely proud.  
“Put it away.”

“It’s yours.”

“No, it is fucking NOT. Now put it away and take it somewhere and destroy it!”

“That won’t change anything. It is just an object, Q.”

Now, he was getting it. He was finally getting it, and the bottomless horror with which he had stared at the syringe was slowly, slowly being directed towards James.

“Would you have done it? Have you actually planned on doing it?”  
he bit out.

James could have lied. Could have just said yes and watch Q fall apart.  
But the truth was bad enough.  
“I don't know. I honestly cannot tell you. Do you understand what that means?”

Q shook his head, but it was more in general denial than an answer to the question.  
Then, he laughed, a sad, broken sound.  
“What is this, then? A last display of morals?”

“Maybe.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“And you were ready to crawl into my lap.”

'This is me. This is what I am. Look at me, Q. Look. At. Me.'

“And now?”  
Finally out of ideas, out of plans. Because you can hope and scheme and justify and fantasize but in the end you will always, always have to face the facts.

“I'm going to Austria.”

“What's in Austria?”

“A clinic.”

“There are clinics here in England.”

“You know I can't stay here.”

“Will you come back?”  
Stubborn child.

“No.”

“So you're just going to... to leave? Just like that?”

“Well, I wouldn't say no to the Aston Martin you got parked over there.”

“A syringe for a car?”

“Seems fitting, doesn't it?”

Because all Q had ever given him had been nice little presents, a weapon, a gadget, a shy smile, all the tears and suffering and submission he could ever want.

And all he had ever done for Q was make him addicted to poison.

“Get the fuck out.”

James smiled.

Good boy.

 

 

He left without looking back.


End file.
